Fish in a Barrel
by Genesis R
Summary: The Redcoat has tormented their lives, hunted them to extinction. Now it's their turn to fight back.


Fish in a Barrel

 _by Genesis R_

"I hear he's loose again."

"Who? The boss?"

A derisive snort. "What rock you been livin' under? The Hunter, of course."

Silence reigns for several moments around the dimly-lit table as its occupants grimace at the information. There are five of them crowded around a corner table in the dingy bar, the sole occupants of the place, hunched over their untouched drinks as they talk in low voices. Whatever it is that has them running this scared must be really something — this group looks like they could take on the devil without blinking. Right now, though, just the mention of the 'Hunter' has them scowling and looking everywhere but at each other, although the same fear and hatred is evident on all their faces.

The biggest one eventually moves, downing his glass in one gulp. He is obviously the leader of the gang, a heavily scarred man with a strip of dirty brown hair down the middle of his head, and a protruding forehead that shadows his eyes.

"So we're just gonna sit here, that it?" He spits at the wall, leaving a dark stain on the already dark wood, and bares his teeth. The canines are filed into fangs, as if he needs to look more intimidating than he already is. "I didn't know this group was made up of little girls."

The other four growl but don't look up.

Finally one of them, a skinny rat of a man with greasy red hair, speaks up. "What's there to do? We face him, we die. We run, he hunts us, and we die. Got any better plans, pal?"

Mohawk abruptly reaches across and slams the guy headfirst into the table. The three lean back, away from the fight, but Rat sits up and straightens his broken nose.

"We'll fight 'im."

They all look back at their leader, mixed expressions of disbelief, awe, disgust at his stupidity.

"Taking on Redcoat? Goodbye, pal, nice knowin' ya," the guy to Rat's left says and is met with nods of agreement.

"Not alone," Mohawk says, and the tension at the table rises perceptibly. "Five to one — even the Redcoat Hunter can't take up all on at once. Or are you all regretting your promise to stick with me?"

"Like hell are we gonna fight him. I'd like to live a bit longer, thank you very much," a blond bruiser announces, rising to leave. "I don't see why you all put up with this sh—" He ducks Mohawk's first swing, but that leaves him too off-balance to dodge the left hook that lifts him into the air and sends him crashing down onto the next table over. Rolling to his feet, he jerks a saw-toothed knife from his belt, but seems more interested in inching toward the door than continuing the fight with his erstwhile leader.

"Bastard," the biggest snarls. "You know the price of slipping out of a deal, right?"

The other three just watch as Mohawk draws his own meat-cleaver of a knife. The blond is strong and fights with nothing to lose, but he doesn't stand a chance against the leader's relentless swings. The big man deftly avoids his blows with easy dexterity, all the while slashing his opponent until he's a silent, bloody corpse. The bartender barely looks up from wiping the counter; fights like this must be a common occurrence in this dive.

Taking a drink, Rat stands up. "Now the odds are swinging towards Hunter's favor. Can't win, can we?"

"Four is more than enough to take out one man," Mohawk answers, returning to his seat. "Plus, I know what to do."

His comrades lean forward eagerly as if he has the key to all wisdom, bad breath mingling across the table.

"It's his guns that's the problem. He can take you out before you even know he's seen you," Mohawk begins, fingering a large round scar on his shoulder. "Get close, so close you wrap your hands around his throat, and he can't use his guns. Better yet, shove him against a wall so he can't even reach for 'em. Then..." He shrugs and grins, the shadow deepening over his face. "It's knifework from there."

The three nod agreement. All of them have scars, all of them have some reason to hate this redcoat who fills their lives with fear and who dogs their trail like a hellhound. If they can strike back at him, catch him off-guard just once, they'll make him pay; they'll make sure he's never a threat to them again. The opportunity of freedom from his silent reign of terror makes their eyes glow and their hands twitch to their weapons.

"So..." a bald, bushy-eyebrowed brute grunts, "where is this son-of-a—"

The door to the bar swings open and the four quickly turn their backs, surreptitiously sliding away whatever weapons they have, ignoring the corpse on the floor and staring into their drinks as if they're just ordinary patrons. With any luck, this stupid newcomer will order a drink or two, then faintly smell blood and feel the unfriendly air of the place, and leave again. If not, well, what's another corpse?

Rat suddenly goes stiff and still, his nose half in the air. With wide eyes, he turns to face the bar counter where the stranger has taken a seat, his back solidly facing the four. Rat turns back to his companions, his lips lifted to reveal very pointy teeth.

"It's him," he mouths, and the others jump like they've been zapped with a hundred volts. At first there's a look of fear all around, even on Mohawk's face, but it quickly morphs into anger and hate, then something even darker. Bloodlust, maybe. Murder, surely.

 _The fool doesn't even realize where he is! So damn cocksure of himself — he'll never know what hits him._

All four break into grins that split their mouths far wider than should be possible for humans. Fingers turn into talons; Mohawk's looming forehead splits open into two huge, curved horns; a thin, brown-pink tail slithers after Rat. They stand up silently, and silently they move into position in a semicircle around the man, who doesn't look up from his beer. He is completely oblivious to what's behind him and around him; he's paying no attention, and they've been more silent than human ears can detect.

Meat cleavers, a tarnished saber, a jackknife: he's totally outnumbered and outgunned, so to speak. They're going to enjoy making him mincemeat.

They glance at their leader, awaiting his signal. On his mark, they will charge, weapons swinging, and their world will be safe.

Mohawk nods.

They lift their blades and lean into the charge.

One silver eyebrow cocks slightly and a hard blue-gray eye glances boredly over a red-clad shoulder.

"Jackpot."

* * *

 **A/N:** Yep, I'm now the proud owner of a PS3. And my first (and currently, only) game is DMC, so... yeah. This summer I'll either be churning fics out like crazy — I have _so many_ ideas already — or I'll simply be vegging out in front of a screen and punching buttons as fast as I can.

Hope you enjoyed this story!


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